The Wise as Serpents, Innocen as Doves Affair, 1
by Mary Catherine Marshall
Summary: The Mother Superior Tales continue ...


**The "Wise as Serpents, Innocent as Doves" Affair, Part One**

**By Mary Catherine Marshall**

_(For you Bible scholars out there, consult the Gospel according to Matthew, Chapter 10, verse 16.)_

On the Thursday following his 'rescue', Illya sat, propped up in bed, frowning at Napoleon, who smiled.

"What's wrong, tovarisch?" the dark haired agent asked, watching the frown deepen into a glower.

"You are behind all of this, da?" the blond agent asked, his arms making the circle of the room. Napoleon followed the arc with his sparkling brown eyes and then came to rest on his partner.

"Can I help it if everyone just _loves_ you?" The glower deepened.

"I have received cards from every section, sub-section, and department, from every continental office, Napoleon!" Illya fumed. "I have received a dozen floral arrangements, six boxes of Belgian chocolates, three fruit baskets, and," he paused, reaching toward his nightstand. "A teddy bear." Napoleon laughed until tears came to his eyes. He reached for the aforementioned bear.

"'With love and hopes of a quick recovery'," he read. "Signed, The Girl's in Communications'." Shrugging, Napoleon tucked the soft, brown furred bear into Illya's arms and smiled. "It's hell being popular." Illya rolled his eyes.

"And you, of course, would know." The door glided open and Emerson stepped in. She grinned.

"Hi, 'Pasha." Napoleon waved. "Where's the chocolate, Cossack?" Illya's hand fluttered to his chest.

"I am fine, wife, thank you for inquiring." She rifled the top drawer of the nightstand issuing a small cry of success. Forcing Illya to draw up his knees, she folded herself on the side of the bed, opened the box, and offered Napoleon his choice. Napoleon popped one into his mouth and nodded appreciatively.

"I know that you're fine, Cossack," she quipped, surveying the booty. She grinned at Napoleon. "He never brings me chocolates, 'Pasha, or flowers for that matter." She smacked Illya's hand as it snaked toward the box. "So, I take what pleasure I can where I can." Illya grunted.

"I am recovering, Em!" He made another grab for the box only to have it pulled away. "Charlie tells me that I must consume extra calories." Emerson winked at Napoleon.

"I don't think that Charlie meant that you should eat your fill of Belgian chocolates, Nikala," she said, selecting another hand dipped morsel. Her eyes wandered to the abandoned containers from Carmelita's. "Anyway, you've just consumed God knows how many calories of Carmi's wonderful cooking, so back off!"

Illya sighed, Napoleon licked his fingers, and Emerson relented. "Here, Nikala," she said, offering the plundered box, "help yourself." Illya crammed a chocolate into his mouth. Emerson shook her head.

"Just like Nicky!" She poked at Napoleon, who was selecting another bonbon. "How are things in Section 2?" Napoleon grinned.

"Very satisfactory," he murmured, allowing the chocolate to melt on his tongue. "Much quieter without my partner around. I've enjoyed having the office to myself, Em. I can really appreciate the space you have … nobody around to interrupt you, nobody nagging you …"

"Nobody to do _your_ paperwork," Illya interjected, closing the nearly empty box of chocolates and shoving it under his pillow. Napoleon rolled his eyes.

"See what I mean?" Emerson laughed as the door opened and Charlie stepped in.

"Ah, so this is where the party's being held! And I wasn't invited!" She draped her arm around Napoleon's shoulder and kissed his cheek. "You, lover, are in deep shit!"

"Not the first time."

"Nor the last," Illya commented, smiling at his doctor. "May I be released, please?" Charlie glanced at Emerson and grinned.

"Where's your husband, Em?" Emerson shrugged.

"Must have been another kidnapping." She pointed at Illya. "_My_ Russian is never so well mannered." Grabbing Illya's hand and squeezing, she snarled, "Imposter!" Illya yelped convincingly. Charlie intervened.

"That's enough, Em," the doctor ordered, taking Illya's hand and deftly checking his pulse. "This 'niceness' may simply be the aftermath of the cocktail we gave him … or … it could be a sneaky ploy to get on my good side." She grinned at Illya who looked as innocent as a lamb. "So, you want to be released, uh?" Illya nodded enthusiastically.

"Em, you ready to take him home?" Emerson grinned.

"What's in it for me?" Illya glared and Emerson relented.

"Okay, I'll take him home, but he has to bring all the chocolate, too, or no deal."

She deftly dodged the flying bear.

* * *

Angelique DuChein paced the small confines of her cell, still nursing the bruises from her last encounter with Napoleon Solo.

"I will make them pay," she muttered, leaning her head against the smooth, cool, steel wall. "Pay dearly." Her hands, no longer neatly manicured, slammed against the wall.

"Ah, ah, ah, Angelique, temper, temper." Napoleon leaned casually against the desk and smiled. "You should know, darling, that making threats around here isn't taken lightly." He shook out a cigarette and lit it. "Not lightly at all." She pressed her back against the wall and pouted.

"Napasha," she crooned, "how could I possibly harm you? Look at me; I'm caged like an animal, not so much as a fork or spoon to use as a weapon." She moved seductively toward him, brushing his hair with her fingertips. "Anyway, darling, you know that I'd never do anything to hurt you."

Napoleon gripped her wrist and pushed her away. "Where you're going you won't be able to hurt anybody for a long time, Angelique." His smile was feral.

"What do you mean?"

"We're moving you; you and Sherrill." Blue-gray smoke snaked toward the ceiling, "A charming little place in Battson, Maine." Angelique frowned and tucked herself between his legs.

"'Pasha," she whispered, nibbling on his ear, "it's very cold in Maine. My skin will dry out, my hair will be impossible." She stepped back and pouted. "You wouldn't want me to be at anything less than my best, would you?" Napoleon crushed the cigarette.

"9 a.m. on Wednesday next, Angelique." He paused at the door and looked back. "And, I couldn't possibly care less about what happens to you."

* * *

Saturday evening, Alexander Waverly pulled his chair closer to the dining room table and smiled at the repast set before him. He ignored the friendly harassment of Emerson raging at his table.

"I have just asked a blessing on this table and on us and this is the thanks I get!" Emerson charged. "I may just have to edit that prayer or flat out rescind it!" A cough from the end of the table drew everyone's attention.

"I have known Emie all of her life and I can testify to the occasional flashes of humility and graciousness," Lina Waverly said, grinning at her goddaughter. Emerson smiled, vindicated by the words. "Of course, you will note that it was _occasional_ flashes." The table erupted in good natured laughter.

"Thank you, Auntie," Emerson said, wiping tears from her eyes. "I am damned by faint praise!" She turned to Bebe and raised her glass. "May I offer a toast of thanks to the extrication team and the medical team that made this dinner party possible?" Alexander nodded.

"To 'Pasha, April, Mark, Jack, and Peter and their cohort, for bringing Nikala home." Glasses clinked. "And, to Charlie, Harry, Bebe, and their cohort who returned him to us." The friends drank deeply. "And, finally, to Uncle Alex and Auntie for keeping me sane and out of jail!" Laughter and more wine followed.

The friends ate until the platters were nearly bare and talked until the candles had burned to nubs. Lina pushed away from the table and stood. "Shall we adjourn to the living room for coffee and drinks? I would guess that dessert is better left for later." Her guests levered themselves out of their chairs and followed their host and hostess to the comfortably appointed living room. Lina poured coffee and Napoleon manned the bar, delivering snifters of brandy. Illya and Emerson cuddled on the couch, smiling at their wonderful, incredible group of friends.

Jack, long legs stretched toward the cold fire place glanced around the room and smiled at Lina. "You have a lovely home, ma'am. I'd like something like this one of these days." He sipped the brandy and sighed.

"Right, mate," Pete joked, "and where would you find the Sheila willing to keep such a house for the likes of you, now?" They giggled at the charming blush that crept over Jack's dark face.

Lina patted his arm. "I would think that there is any number of eligible young women more than willing to wed our Mr. Ahern," she offered, frowning at Pete. "Both of you, and Mr. Slate, are among the most attractive young men of my acquaintance."

April grinned mischievously. "Isn't it about time that someone paid some compliments to the fairer sex?" Her elbow found Mark's ribs followed by a loud grunt. He lifted his brandy snifter.

"To the fairer sex, God bless 'em one and all!" Glasses clinked. April frowned.

"Some compliment, that!" Napoleon leaned on the mantel and winked at Charlie.

"Allow the Master, please," he said, his voice soft, low, and sexy. "To my most esteemed colleague, Miss April Dancer; I bow to your beauty, grace, and killer instinct." April glanced at Mark who snorted. Napoleon turned to Emerson.

"To the second most beautiful woman in the world; I bow to you beauty, intellect, and stamina. I cannot imagine what it must take to be wed to my partner." Emerson laughed and snuggled closer to Illya who rolled his eyes. "Nor can I imagine what it must take to be married to _you_!" He dodged a flying pillow and continued.

"To Lina, our most gracious hostess, who welcomes this motley crew into her home and tolerates occasional waywardness into 'shop talk'." Lina chuckled. "To Bebe; a woman of extraordinary skill, beauty, and grace. We owe you more than we can ever repay." Bebe blushed and raised her glass in salute. Napoleon turned to Charlie, love and humor glowing in his dark eyes.

"And, to _the most beautiful_ woman in the world," he bowed, "I am unworthy." Charlie laughed.

"Got that right, Solo, on both counts!" She grabbed his arm and pulled him onto the couch, kissing him soundly. "Thank you, darling."

* * *

Eligeus Trap smiled to himself even while he frowned at the three Thrush agents seated before him.

"Gentlemen, the time is at hand," he rasped, tenting his fingers and narrowing his eyes. The three agents seemed to hold their breaths, unwilling and unable to squirm under his unrelenting gaze.

Basil Williams rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "Soon, sir?" he asked. His two cohorts thought him too young and too inexperienced to know better than to ask.

Trap glared at the young agent. "Be still, Williams," he said his voice low and menacing. His gnarled fingers opened a dark blue file folder and he appeared to read the contents. Several agonizing minutes later, he glanced up and pushed away from his desk. He paced the expensively appointed office and then turned to face his agents.

"UNCLE is preparing to move Miss DuChein and Dr. Sherrill from headquarters to an installation in the State of Maine, a small town called Battson on the Canadian border." The hunched man paused and lit a cigarette, blowing its smoke toward the agents. "Battson is remote, the perfect location for UNCLE's prison."

Clive Chandler, an older man with graying brown hair, snorted. "You've got somebody on the inside."

"How clever of you, Clive, to make that deduction," Trap growled, snuffing out the cigarette with violence wholly unnecessary. "Yes, the secretary to the commandant of the facility has rather expensive tastes and is desirous of leaving Battson behind. We are merely assisting her."

"Is she trustworthy, sir?' Michael Handy asked, his wiry frame tensed for action.

"As trustworthy as any woman intent on acquiring wealth by any means," Trap said, resting against his desk. "The information Miss Bertha Theobald has provided to date has been without error."

The three agents glanced at each other, wondering what sort of woman would answer to the name 'Bertha'.

"At any rate, gentlemen," Trap continued, "Miss Theobald is of no concern to you. She is merely a conduit for information." He paused and turned his attention to the folder. "Your assignment is to bring Miss DuChein out of the UNCLE facility as quickly as possible and without harm coming to her. Do you understand?"

Chandler raised an eyebrow and dug out a cigar from his inside jacket pocket. "I would think that's Miss DuChein is something of a liability, sir, considering the amount of time she's been held by UNCLE." He prepared the cigar and set it alight. "I mean, they've had plenty of time to debrief her. How do we know that she's of any value to the organization?"

Trap's fist struck the desk sharply. "I do not require your opinion, Chandler!" he snapped, his watery blue eyes filled with anger. "Your job is to retrieve Miss DuChein and return her here. I will take care of and further journey. Any concerns regarding her stay with UNCLE rest at levels much higher than the one you currently occupy." Chandler lowered his eyes.

"With respect, sir," Williams ventured, "what are we to do with Dr. Sherrill?"

"He is of no concern to THRUSH," Trap replied, turning his back on his agents. "Kill him."

* * *

After hours of good humored conversation, Lina led her guests to the patio for dessert and coffee. As the moon rose high in the sky, they watched deer venture onto the large lawn, followed by rabbits, and listened to the squirrels settle in for the night. Emerson and Illya sat on a rattan settee, holding hands. Charlie and Napoleon perched on a low rock wall, watching the stars. Mark and April relaxed around a glass topped patio table, chatting quietly with Jack and Peter. Harry and Alexander examined the latter's rose garden. Illya tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a yawn.

"I saw that, 'Mr. Party Animal'," Charlie called, pointing at Illya. "Em, let's pack him up and take him home." Emerson grinned as Pete and Jack appeared at his side.

"Your most able assistants stand ready, sir," Pete said, bowing officiously, holding Illya's crutches. Illya glared at him and then at Charlie.

"I see that you have added two new minions to your stable." Charlie laughed.

"I like 'em big and … well, let's just say big, at least until they've done my bidding." Jack looked wounded.

"Partner, I think she was about to say 'big and dumb.'"

Pete chuckled. "Well, we're both big, but I'd suggest that only one of us is 'dumb'." Charlie giggled. Jack pulled a face.

"Take the crutches, IK," Charlie insisted. Illya folded his arms and, in Emerson's opinion, pouted. Pete was not dissuaded. "'Course, I could just let me partner here pick you up and chuck you into the car." Jack grinned and made a move to lift Illya. The glare deepened.

"I'll take that as a 'no,'" Jack laughed, offering his arm. "Now, if Mother ordered me to, then I'd have to, ya' know." Illya glanced at Emerson who was already forming the words.

He took the offered arm, settled the crutches, and began the slow task of making his way to the door. He stopped suddenly.

"We have not bid our host's farewell, Em. We have not thanked them for their hospitality." He looked as innocent as a lamb.

"Give it up, Amy Vanderbilt," she answered, pointing the way to the door. "Uncle Alex and Auntie are well aware that you've stayed past your bedtime. They'll understand when they notice that we're gone." Alexander appeared out of a haze of pipe smoke.

"Ah, Mr. Kuryakin." Illya cringed. "Good of you to join us this evening, but I would think you would do a better job of recuperating at home under the gentle ministrations of Emie." Illya glanced at Emerson who was doing a mighty battle with an ill suppressed laugh. "I want you back on active duty as quickly as possible."

"I concur, sir." Illya offered his hand, leaning on his crutches. "Thank you for a delightful evening, sir. Please convey my thanks to Mrs. Waverly." Alexander took Illya's hand and smiled.

"I shall deliver your compliments." He glanced at Charlie. "Now that Mrs. Waverly is out of ear shot, Dr. Charles, when might we see the return of Mr. Kuryakin to his former duties?" Charlie's smile disappeared.

"When the memo hits your desk, sir." She held the door. Waverly did not look pleased.

"Perhaps, Dr. Charles, I will be ready sooner than you think," Illya suggested, hope deep in his voice. Charlie smiled.

"When I say, Illya, and not before. Understand?"

"Understood," Waverly and Illya chorused.

Even though Illya had protested that he was not tired and that it wasn't necessary to leave the party early, his head lolled against Emerson's shoulder and, within the first few miles, he was asleep.

She wrapped her arm around him, settling his head against the hollow of her shoulder and kissed his head. "I've missed you, Nikala," she whispered. "I've missed you desperately." He sighed and cuddled closer.

At the apartment building, she gently wakened him with a kiss. "We're home, Nikala." He blinked and immediately sat up.

"Why did you allow me to fall asleep?" he charged, frowning at her. She laughed.

"Since when have I _ever_ had any control over your sleeping habits?" She noticed his furtive glance at their driver and guard. "They've seen sleeping people before, don't worry!"

The young guard offered his arm, but Illya refused, leaving the guard holding his crutches. Illya glared at Emerson. "I have no need of these things." He limped toward the building with Emerson and the guard trailing.

"I'll take those, Agent Finster, and thank you for your help." The young guard did not relinquish the crutches.

"Sorry, ma'am, but I have my orders." He blushed charmingly. "Mr. Solo and Mr. Waverly have required that we escort you to your door and make a sweep of the apartment." Emerson frowned, knowing Illya's response.

"While I appreciate their concern and your devotion to duty, Jay, I am quite sure that we can manage." The crutches remained in his grip. Hands on her hips she turned the Kuryakin glare on full force. "I must insist, Mr. Finster. Give me the crutches and I'll let Solo and Waverly know that we're home safe and sound." He surrendered the crutches.

"I will have to report this, ma'am." Agent Finster looked decidedly uncomfortable. Emerson laughed.

"Better that than have you nursing a bruised jaw." She followed Illya into the lobby and stopped to reassure the young agent again. "Mr. Kuryakin does not take kindly to being babied, as he puts it. You have done your duty as best you can under the circumstances. Trust me, Jay, Mr. Solo and Mr. Waverly couldn't have done any better."

"Yes, ma'am. Have a pleasant evening." The look on his face was pure relief. The look on Illya's face was pure frustration.

"Have you _quite _finished flirting with the guard?" he growled, holding the elevator door.

"For the time being, Nikala," she said, turning the key for the Penthouse and pushing the button. "But, as Scarlett O'Hara says, 'Tomorrow is another day.'" Illya laughed in spite of himself.

"He is entirely too young," Illya groused around his grin. "I was never that young." Emerson pressed him against the elevator wall and kissed him.

"I doubt that you were, Nikala." She nibbled his ear and then stepped back. "Finster's a better kisser."

Illya's eyebrow shot up and he pulled her into a passionate, deep kiss.

"Let him top that!"

Monday morning, Charlie completed her evaluation and allowed Illya not more than four hours a day at headquarters. Illya grinned mischievously.

"And, how many hours may I spend in the lab, Doctor?" His eyes twinkled with merriment.

"Blue Eyes, you're pushing the limit!" She rested her hand on his arm and squeezed. "Four hours per day and four hours only! Divide it any way you like." She pasted on her 'Doctor Doom' face and continued. "Don't let me find you here one minute longer or I'll rescind my waiver!" Illya attempted to look contrite. "And, don't let me catch you in interrogation with Angelique or Sherrill!" Illya's strained attempt at contrite switched to a scowl.

"Understood, Dr. Charles," he said, pulling his jacket over his black turtleneck. "Not more than four hours per day." He limped toward the door. "But, I must refuse to honor your final condition." Charlie frowned.

"I swear to you Kuryakin, you will not be found in interrogation, or you'll answer to me _and_ to the Old Man." Her frown deepened. "Where are your crutches?" Illya stopped.

"I suppose that I forgot them this morning." He shrugged. "It is often hectic what with getting the children off to school, getting Em off to work …" Charlie held up her hand.

"Save it. I'll have PT deliver your cane … the briarwood with the brass handle." Illya cringed. "Don't screw with me, Illya," her voice and her expression hard. "Stay away from Angelique or I'll have you suspended."

Illya shrugged and allowed the door to hiss closed behind him.

The elevator deposited him in the familiar hallway leading to the office he shared with his partner. Illya's cane tapped against the polished floor as he made his way to the door.

"'Bout time you showed up," Margaret, his unfailing surly secretary said, glancing up from a stack of files. She grinned at him. "I've caught all of your scut work and I'm ready to hand it over."

Illya chuckled, something rarely heard around UNCLE. "My regrets, Margaret," he said, resting his hand on the stack of reports. "I believe that I am your new 'office assistant'; at least for the duration." He indicated his cane. She collected a stack of files and followed him through the opening office door. Napoleon glanced up and smiled.

"'Bout time you showed up!" he said, taking the files from Margaret and dropping them unceremoniously on Illya's desk.

"So I have been told," Illya said, nodding his thanks to Margaret, who disappeared.

"I take it she's been complaining about the work load," Napoleon said, leaning against the partner's desk they shared. "Well, the old girl's right, partner mine. She's picked up the slack since you've been out "relaxing." Napoleon's manicured fingers mimed quotation marks in the air. "And, she's been bitching about it every second of every frigging day."

Illya carefully slipped into his desk chair and smiled. "Margaret is not 'bitching', Napoleon," he said, handing over his coffee mug to be filled, "she is merely applying words to what I have always known and experienced."

Napoleon touched his chest. "I am deeply offended, Cossack," he said, filling Illya's mug, the one shaped like a black turtle neck sweater. "I am not now, nor have I ever been, a slacker when it comes to paperwork."

The blond Russian snorted, taking the offered mug. "Slacker is too tame a word, Napoleon," he said, sipping the strong, hot, black coffee. "One must give a certain level of attention to work and then intentionally ignore it to be a slacker." His blue eyes glittered with merriment. "You, on the other hand, pay absolutely no attention to paper work provided that I, or some unfortunate second, take care of it for you."

Napoleon laughed, setting his coffee cup on his desk and dropping into his chair. "God, I've missed having you around! Margaret's a pain in the ass, too, but not nearly so entertaining." He eyed Illya's hair, now tamed into a respectable ponytail, and affected a frown. "You need a haircut, tovarisch."

Illya pulled his black rimmed glasses from his inside breast pocket and dropped them onto his nose. "I have been described as many things, Napoleon, but never entertaining." Sipping from his coffee cup and glanced over the rim. "And, Em prefers my hair this length."

"I'll bet that's not what the Old Man'll say." Napoleon smiled at his long-time partner, silently grateful to hear his voice and be the target of his wit and sarcasm. Illya shot him a warning glare. Napoleon instantly recovered. "How's the leg today?"

Illya absently rubbed his left leg and reached for a file. "Much better, especially since the minions from physical therapy have turned their attentions elsewhere." He frowned at the memory of hours spent in the hands of lovely, energetic, maniacal, and sadistic physical therapists. "I would much prefer torture at the hands of Thrush, as least I am assured that it will end, unlike PT."

"I've heard the tales of your encounters," Napoleon said, attacking his own stack of files. "You are, as always, legendary. The nurses in Medical and the PT girls have compared notes, so you are forewarned."

"Forewarned?" Illya asked, his eyes never leaving the file before him.

"You're on the short list," Napoleon explained, grinning at his partner's concentration. "Next time you end up in Medical they're going to do some serious damage."

Illya waved a hand dismissively. "I live with Emerson _and_ five children. I fear nothing!"

On Tuesday, Emerson, Charlie, and April lingered over lunch at Garfunkel's talking about the joys and tribulations of partners, dating, agent-husbands', and small children.

"After the debacle that was my marriage to Max I swore that I'd never get married again," Emerson said, sipping her beer. "Now, look at me! Married nearly five years and the mother of five kids! "What's happened to me?" April laughed.

"Oh, I'm thinking a good looking, quiet, introspective, blond Russian with fabulous blue eyes … and great sex," April proposed, taking her turkey sandwich in hand. "'Course, I could be wrong."

"Nope, you're not wrong," Charlie agreed.

Emerson laughed. "I'm afraid that you're both right. It's all Nikala's fault. Or, I could blame it on 'Pasha _and_ Alexander."

"I'd add Mark to that list," April suggested, reaching for her bottle of beer.

"That would be my choice," Charlie responded, munching her sandwich. "How's it been with the Russian at home?"

"He's the favorite parent at the moment. I don't think that Alexi spends anytime in his crib. Nikala holds him, plays with him, and spoils him rotten."

"It's good for him," Charlie prescribed, grinning at her friend and colleague. "Illya, I mean." April nodded.

"After this last assignment he needs a diversion, something to keep him busy, and there's nothing like a little Kuryakin to keep him busy."

Emerson nodded her agreement as Dov delivered coffee; "On the house," he insisted. "It has been much too long since you have come for a visit!" She pulled a packet of photographs from her pocket and Dov pulled up a chair.

"Ah, this little one … Alexi … he is your son, Emerson," Dov said, smiling at the pictures. "Your face made over. No wonder your husband has such an adoring expression on his face."

Emerson peered over Dov's shoulder and smiled, too. "Nikala does look like the original doting father, doesn't he?" She had to admit that Alexi did favor her more than either of the twins did; her dark blue eyes, her mouth and smile, and Illya's scowl. She chuckled at the thought. "He may favor me, Dov, but he's got Illya's mercurial temper. You should see him when he's mad!"

April chuckled. "He's an absolute terror, Dov. Don't let the innocent babe look fool you!"

Dov chuckled. "Such a beautiful baby this one is. I cannot imagine that he has any temper at all."

"Born with a temper, Dov," Charlie said, relishing the strong, black coffee. "Alexi wanted out so badly that he tried to kick his way out!"

Dov looked at Emerson, his face reflecting deep concern. "You are well, my friend? You have recovered from this difficult birth?"

"Completely, Dov," Emerson said, patting her flat stomach. "All I have to show for this little rug rat is a small, well-hidden scar." She rested her hand on Dov's shoulder as he continued through the packet of photographs. "I slept through the whole thing. It's the only way to deliver babies, I think. When I woke up, there he was, all pink and beautiful and sleeping in Illya's arms."

Dov grinned at the description and raised an eyebrow mischievously. "Will there be others, Emerson?" April rolled her eyes and Charlie giggled.

"Other babies, Dov?" she asked, her own eyebrows matching his. "I'm not eager to do this again anytime soon!"

Charlie snorted. "Give her some time, Dov. She'll change her mind." Dov nodded and chuckled.

"It would be a shame not to have more beautiful, smart children, my Emie," he said, looking at a photograph of the children. "You and your Russian, you make very beautiful, smart babies, yes?" Emerson laughed, returning the packet to her pocket.

"All that and more," April suggested. "Beautiful, smart, clever, conniving, multi-lingual, sneaky, and funny." Emerson rolled her eyes.

"Spoken like a true Auntie. Just wait 'til you baby sit the horde next! They'll run you ragged!" She glanced at her watch. "Charlie, I'm afraid that we need to return to the grist mill before they send out a search party."

"Too late," Napoleon said, sauntering up to the table. "Waverly wants to see April … and me."

Charlie winked at her husband. "Just another reason why I'm a lowly doctor rather than a top-notch Section 2 agent." Dov excused himself and Napoleon pulled a chair close to Charlie, resting his arm around her shoulder.

"What's up?" Emerson asked, lighting a cigarette from Napoleon's offered silver lighter.

"Time to move our guests to the Great White North," Napoleon said, the humor in his voice failing to reflect in his face.

"You and I are going to transfer Angelique and Sherrill?" April asked, shivering at the thought of Maine in the back country. "What if something unfortunate was to happen? What if my gun accidentally fired?"

Napoleon shrugged and grinned. "Accidents do happen, April."

* * *

"So, we're going to bring Angelique in from the cold." It was a statement rather than a question. Michael Handy seemingly bounced in his seat, anticipation of the retrieval nearly overwhelming.

Clive Chandler didn't look up from the newspaper. "That's the assignment, Mike," he said evenly. "Once again you're right on top of things."

Basil Williams watched the scenery below, mile after mile of forest interspersed with open spaces where timber had been harvested. He wondered about transportation, about the locals, and about everything. He glanced up at the two senior agents and tried to decide if he wanted to ask his questions. Handy's sharp eyes were on him.

"Got a problem, Basil?" Handy asked, smirking at the rookie. "Little nervous? First big score, uh?" Handy chuckled. "Don't worry, little man, we'll keep your ass out of a sling."

Basil squared his shoulders and glared. His scores at the academy had been very good, in the top 2 of his class. He had nothing to be concerned about on this mission.

"I don't have a problem, Mike, but it looks to me like you do," Basil said, returning the smirk full force. "Worried that the rookie might out shine you? Worried that you might end up with _your_ ass in a sling?" Handy rose, menace in his movements.

Chandler crumpled the newspaper. "Knock it off, both of ya!" he said, anger in his voice. "The last thing I need is a goddamned pissing contest!" He paced the narrow aisle of the jet, cursing Trap for assigning these two to the mission. He stopped and faced the agents. "All I can tell you is that if we fuck this one up there won't be a sling for anybody's ass. Trap will be measuring us for body bags."

Williams and Handy sobered immediately and quiet filled the cabin. "I'm the senior agent and I'll call the shots," Chandler said, making eye contact with both junior agents. "Do as you're told and everybody will be happy, including Trap." He returned to his newspaper ignoring the glare exchanged between Williams and Handy.

The 'plan' was simple. They had studied the installation carefully, memorizing entrances, exits, and the electrical schematic. Angelique and Sherrill would arrive at Battson this afternoon and Bertha Theobald would handle their intake process. Theobald had already sabotaged the heating system, making the facility just a little warmer than a freezer. At about the same time, Williams and Handy would arrive disguised as heating and cooling repairmen in a delivery truck stocked with a variety of armaments and explosives. Williams was responsible for setting explosives throughout the facility while Handy would deal with Sherrill and then secure Angelique. Angelique would be stashed in the truck with Williams and Handy and, while the explosions began, the three agents would escape.

Chandler almost smiled at the thought of his part in this assignment. While his two junior agents took care of what he thought of as 'scut' work, he would take care of Napoleon Solo. In the end, Illya Kuryakin would be his.

As he stared out the window, he remembered Algeria and he remembered that Solo had cost him the best partner he'd ever had, Jerry Reingold. Solo had shot Reingold through the head, just missing his own partner in the process.

Kuryakin had infiltrated the Thrush operations center only to be discovered by Chandler. The next logical step was to enter into a friendly conversation with the Russian. Reingold guarded the interrogation cell while Chandler made use of the finest Thrush operative available, Verity Wexler. After nearly two days of Verity's special kind of attention, the Russian was willing to admit to damn near anything.

That's when Solo showed up with an attack force of nearly 30 UNCLE agents. They overran security and Solo killed Reingold. Chandler was wounded, but managed to escape taking Wexler with him. Solo rescued his partner and the two searched for Chandler and Wexler for months before handing off the investigation to other UNCLE personnel.

Chandler folded the newspaper and reclined his seat, closing his eyes and putting the finishing touches on his plans for Solo and the woman. Verity was waiting and retribution was at hand.

* * *

The flight to Bangor was, blessedly, uneventful. Angelique simpered at Napoleon, complaining about his refusal to release her handcuffs. Sherrill sat silently, staring straight ahead. April thought the look on his face told the whole story of his shattered professional and personal life. Napoleon shared the communiqué regarding Trap with April.

"Wonderful," April said sarcasm thick in her voice. "Just freaking wonderful!"

There was a chill in the air when they left New York, but it had turned to winter cold when they deplaned in Caribou. Napoleon tossed a jacket to April as the bulkhead door opened. April slipped on the jacket and stuffed her hands into the pockets coming up with matching gloves and sock cap.

"Nothing like the height of UNCLE fashion," she said, grinning at her 'partner'. "Shall we get this show on the road?"

Napoleon took Angelique's arm and helped her hobble off the plane. Sherrill went quietly. Angelique continued to complain.

"Napasha," she whined, "after all we've meant to each other I can't imagine why you allowed her to insist upon this barbaric treatment!" Napoleon gave her a decidedly unfriendly push toward the Land Rover.

"You're lucky that I didn't let her blow your brains out like she wanted," he said, lifting her into the high rise vehicle. Angelique glanced at April who offered an enigmatic smile.

"I wouldn't have shot you on the plane, Angelique," April said, climbing into rear seat. "Couldn't risk depressurization." Napoleon chatted with the agent from the Caribou office. "But, now that we're on the road, things might well change." She unzipped the jacket and allowed Angelique to take a good look at the holstered Walther P-38. She sneered.

"You would never kill in cold blood," the blonde Thrush agent, snapped. "It is not permitted under your charter … and, you don't have it in you."

April unholstered the gun, chambered a round, and pressed the muzzle against Angelique's temple. Her eyes were dark and menacing. "You're right, Angelique, I would never kill you without proper provocation." Angelique blanched. "But, you tried to murder my friend, and you're breathing my air. I'm thinking that that is provocation enough." Napoleon slammed the door and pushed the key into the ignition.

"April, just remember that this is a borrowed vehicle." The engine roared to life. "I'm not going to clean up the mess." She flipped on the safety and returned the gun to its holster. Angelique slumped against the door, keeping as much distance as possible between them.

"I don't want to sound like Illya's kids, Napoleon, but how long before we get to Battson?" April asked, her gaze never leaving Angelique.

Napoleon frowned, his brain working the calculations. "Depending on the weather, between three and four hours."

"What about the weather?"

"Agent Queveroux says there's a storm front moving in … ice followed by snow in the higher elevations."

April rolled her eyes and leaned into the car seat. "Perfect. Too bad Mark isn't here. He'd love it."

* * *

Illya stood in Communications listening to Napoleon report that they were undertaking the final leg of the journey. Agent Andrea Cathay turned to face him.

"Satisfied, Mr. Kuryakin?" she asked, frowning at the blond agent. "They've arrived safely. They've taken possession of the vehicle. They're on their way to Battson."

Illya blinked impassively. "Very good, Miss Cathay," he said, turning and limping toward the door. "Keep me posted on their progress."

Andrea took a deep breath, marshalling her resolve. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kuryakin, but I am allowed to report only to Mr. Waverly and the CEA."

Illya stopped at the open door and glared at the woman. "For your information, Miss Cathay, I am acting CEA until Mr. Solo returns. I will send a memo to that effect should you deem it necessary."

"That will not be necessary, Mr. Kuryakin," Alexander Waverly said, entering the Communications center. "Miss Cathay, you will report to Mr. Kuryakin per his orders."

The young agent blushed. "Yes, sir."

"Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said, frowning at his acting CEA, "a moment, please." Illya followed his boss into the outer office and waited.

Waverly puttered about the office, glancing out the windows, shuffling files, and pouring tea for his agent and himself. Illya could hear the wheels turning in the old man's head.

"Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said, taking his chair, "I am well aware that you are chaffing under this inactivity." Illya colored slightly. "While I understand and even appreciate your concern, I will not permit you to harass my Communications staff." Waverly's pale blue eyes fixed on the Russian. "I trust that I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir, perfectly clear."

Waverly allowed the slightest of smiles. "Very good, then." He rifled the files at his elbow, selecting one and sending it around to Illya. "I believe that this report from Section 3 requires your attention."

Illya nodded, opening the file and pulling out his glasses. He read through it, commanding his face to remain impassive. Waverly watched silently.

"You recognize my concerns, I take it?"

Illya glanced up, his face no longer impassive. "Eligeus Trap is not unknown to us, sir."

"Yes, however, several of Mr. Trap's … Dr. Trap's … top agents have 'disappeared', so to speak. We suspect that they en route to the Battson facility in an attempt to retrieve our prisoners," Waverly said, reaching for his favorite Meerschaum pipe and humidor.

"That is not surprising, sir," Illya countered, turning pages in the report. "I assume Mr. Solo, Miss Dancer, and the facility are aware?"

Waverly struck a match and nodded. "We have advised the facility and our agents, although the possibility of a successful attack is very low." He watched his number two agent limp from the office. "Ah, one more thing, Mr. Kuryakin." Illya turned to face his boss. "Dr. Trap has acquired an associate." Waverly set fire to the pipe. "Verity Wexler."

Waverly thought that he had never seen Illya Kuryakin so pale.

* * *

After more than four hours on the two lane highway Napoleon pulled the Land Rover to a stop at the first security checkpoint at the Battson facility. Two guards checked the vehicle for explosives and other devices while a third reviewed the paperwork Napoleon handed over.

"Welcome to Battson, Mr. Solo and Miss Dancer," the guard said, checking his manifest and their ID's. "Please continue on this road and make a left at the first driveway. Security will review your documents and then direct you to prisoner receiving and processing." He smiled and waved them forward. "Enjoy your stay."

"'Enjoy your stay'," Sherrill said, surprising everyone with his first words on the trip. "Enjoy your fucking life, is more like it!' He turned and glared at Angelique. "I wish to hell that I'd never met you. I wish to hell that I'd killed you when I had the chance." He shook his head. "I wish to hell that I was dead!"

Angelique shrugged at the outburst. "Don't blame me for your greed, Sherrill," she said. "All I did was offer you money; you made your own decision, so deal with it." Sherrill fell silent, his face acknowledging the truth of her statement.

Napoleon said nothing, only wishing that this assignment were finished. He was tired, his shoulders ached, and he wasn't looking forward to the return trip to Caribou. "Luv, after we get our guests settled, we'll find someplace to eat and then you can drive back." He glanced at the low, gun metal gray sky and frowned.

At the second guard station, Napoleon signed the manifest and handed back the clipboard and pen. He glanced at a truck up ahead and frowned. "Furnace trouble, how inconvenient." April shared his frown.

"You've received the most recent communiqué from New York?" she asked, leaning forward.

"Yes, ma'am." He nodded toward the repair truck. "It's a local firm and the crew checked out. "Blew a circuit or something. The whole place is like a meat locker, but it'll be nice and toasty again before too long." He looked at Angelique who looked at him through lowered lashes. He smiled and blushed.

Napoleon chuckled. "Wouldn't do to have Miss DuChein less than comfortable," he said, taking in her performance via the rearview mirror. Angelique made a most unflattering face.

Minutes later, they pulled into the sally port, greeted by eight large guards. Napoleon and April flashed their ID's and the guards escorted the prisoners into a holding area where their shackles were removed and replaced with handcuffs.

The senior guard took April and Napoleon to Bertha Theobald. "I'll have the shackles for you when you leave," he said, opening the office door. "Bert, we've got company," he called. A very large woman glanced up from a work station and frowned.

"I've asked you … _told you_ … to call me '_Miss_ Theobald'!" she snapped, rising from her chair. _Jesus,_ April thought watching the woman lumber toward her; _she's got to be more than six feet tall and more than 300 pounds! Of course, the winter coat does nothing to help the situation._ April schooled her face and extended her hand. "Agent April Dancer, UNCLE, New York," she said, watching as her hand was swallowed in Miss Theobald's massive grip.

"Good to meet you," Bertha said, eyeing up Napoleon. "And this must be the great Napoleon Solo. Good to have you here. You've got DuChein and Sherrill?" She smiled a rather unwelcoming smile at April and leered at Napoleon.

"Yes, ma'am," Napoleon said, obviously uncomfortable with her attentions. "I'm told we have more paper to deal with, Miss Theobald." He nodded toward the door. "With the weather worsening I'd like to get this taken care of so we can get back on the road."

She smirked at his comment. "Just like you Section 2 people, never want to deal with the paperwork." She handed April a folder and a pen. "I'll let your assistant take care of this for you, Mr. Solo. Would you care for coffee or tea?" April glared at Napoleon, who grinned.

"Uh, sure, Miss Theobald," he said, stepping aside. "Agent Dancer, just finish that up and join us when you're done." April leaned around Bertha's massive form and stuck out her tongue.

"I live to serve," she said, crossing her eyes for effect. She chuckled as Miss Theobald took Napoleon by the arm and nearly lifted him off the ground in her exuberance to get to the cafeteria. "Enjoy your stay!"

April rubbed her hands together, hoping for some warmth, and then flipped through the file. She signed where necessary and then took the file with her in search of the cafeteria.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," a guard at the first hallway said, stepping to block her path. "Only authorized personnel are permitted past this point." She fished for her ID and flipped it open, holding it inches from his nose.

"I _am_ authorized personnel," she growled. "Where's the cafeteria?" He moved away from her.

"Down this hall and to your right," he said, realizing that all the rumors he'd heard about Section 2 agents was true. "Pushy broad," he muttered.

"I heard that!" April called over her shoulder, trying to keep the humor from her voice. "One more comment like that and I'll have you stationed in Greenland! Believe me; it's worse than this place!"

Napoleon glanced up, relief on his face. "Agent Dancer, please join us," he said, pulling out a chair and grinning. "What took you so long?" he asked, whispering in her ear.

She produced the file and pen. "Check this over and sign where indicated," she ordered, helping herself to his cup of coffee. "Then, if I'm not mistaken, we're free to go." April lingered over her coffee, engaging Bertha in light conversation.

"So, how long have you been at this facility?" she asked, catching Napoleon's obvious desire to depart out of the corner of her eye.

Bertha smiled, pleased to be the center of attention. "I've been here nearly eight years," she said, shoveling a fork full of second helping chocolate cake into her mouth. "I started in the steno pool and worked my way up to booking.'

"Must be fairly interesting," April observed. "I mean, this facility holds some of the most dangerous people in the world." Napoleon blinked at her in disbelief.

"Oh, I've met 'em all," Bertha said, winking conspiratorially at Napoleon. "These two, though, Miss DuChein and Dr. Sherrill, are sort of different from the typical."

Napoleon leaned forward, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "How so, Miss Theobald?"

She smiled at him, leaning closer. "You can call me 'Burt'," she said, ignoring April completely. "These two, well, they tried to kill your partner, didn't they? Not only tried to kill him once, but twice! I mean, that must make them pretty much the worst of the worst, wouldn't you say?"

"With out a doubt," April said, pushing away from the table and flickering a glance at Napoleon. "What say we shove off, partner?"

The gleam in Napoleon's eye was all she needed to start for the door. He rested his hand on Bertha's for an instant. "And just when things were getting interesting." He shrugged apologetically. "Duty calls, Bert …, but then you know all about that."

"I'll walk you out," she said, dropping her fork. "Make sure you've got everything." She smiled down at Napoleon. "I even had the cook make up some sandwiches and a big thermos of coffee for you."

They paused at the main entrance and Napoleon returned the file. Bertha initialed their paperwork and let her hand linger on Napoleon's.

"So, you're staying in Caribou tonight?" she asked. "I mean, there's a nice little night club downtown. You might like it." She blushed. "What hotel are you at?"

April frowned around Bertha's substantial shoulder. "Royal Arms," she said, jerking her head to the side. Bertha turned and gave her a look that said, 'I wasn't talking to you'.

"Right," Napoleon added. "The Royal Arms on Downing."

"That's just down the block from Raleigh's Place," Bertha gushed. "You'll love it, I promise. Tell the barkeep that Bert sent you and he'll take real good care of you."

April reached for Napoleon's arm and smiled at Bertha. "Thanks for the tip. We'll need a little antifreeze by the time we get to Caribou." She pushed Napoleon out the door and waved good bye.

Napoleon laughed as April adjusted the driver's seat. "If I didn't know better, Miss Dancer, I'd say you were jealous."

April fired up the engine. "Try, 'bored out of my mind', Napoleon." She pulled the Rover onto the side road and grinned at him. "You must have been bored, too, to waste that much time on Bertha."

He snorted, settling into the passenger seat. "Charming a woman is never a waste of time, April."

She gunned the truck onto the main road and grinned. "Like I said, bored out of _your_ mind."

* * *

Basil Williams and Mike Handy worked steadily through the evening at the Battson installation, managing to 'fix' the heating plant sufficiently to produce enough warmth to calm the staff.

"So, how long do ya' think it'll take ya' to get 'er up and runnin'," the security guard asked, following the younger repairman around the heating plant.

Basil rubbed his face, running his fingers over his stubble and shook his head. "Sorry if we're in your way, but can't say just yet. Might need a part, but won't know 'til my helper gets into the guts of the machine, ya' know?"

The security guard grinned. "Not in the way, Mac, just curious that's all. If you expect to be around tonight I have to report to the next shift so they don't roust ya'."

Mike walked up, grease smeared on his face and hands, looking for the world like a real repairman. "I can rig it to send some warm air to some parts of the lock-up, but it'll take all night to get 'er up and runnin' right," he said, wiping his hands on a shop towel. "Guess you could say it's more involved than we thought at first."

The security guard nodded. "I'll let the next shift know that you're here, but I don't think you'll be seein' too much of 'em tonight. We run a lighter crew after midnight."

Basil grinned and nodded. "Well, just make sure your guys know we're here, okay? Don't want to get busted and end up livin' here, ya' know?"

"Don't worry 'bout that," the guard said, walking toward the elevator. "This ain't a state pen, it's private." He paused next to a red phone. "Need anything just call 17, okay?"

"Gotcha'," Mike said, returning to his work. "Have a good evenin'." The guard waved.

"Moron," Basil commented, checking his watch. "I've got a few more surprises to set. I'll be back in an hour or so." He stopped at the metal staircase. "Want some coffee or something?"

"Coffee, black," Mike said, leaning against the boiler. "Ya' know, that coverall and visitor badge makes you look all official."

Basil looked at his dark green jumpsuit now liberally smeared with grease and grinned. "Well, the guys at the academy always said that costuming is 90 of the job." He jogged up the steps and Mike shook his head.

"Rookie."

* * *

Illya frowned and closed the latest in a series of files regarding Eligeus Trap. He pushed away from his desk, limped to the window of his office without the aid of his cane, and pressed his forehead against the chilled glass.

Napoleon and April had reported in as expected. He glanced at his watch and grinned. He was sure that they had arrived in Caribou even with the adverse weather conditions.

April had made the last check-in, calling from the Land Rover as she drove while Napoleon napped.

"Open Channel D. Agent Dancer reporting."

Illya had unceremoniously grabbed the microphone from the startled Communications tech and answered.

"April, where are you?"

"Somewhere in the frozen wilds of northwestern Maine," she replied, her voice distorted by interference from the weather and the bumpy roads. "Hard to tell, Agent Kuryakin. It all looks like Siberia to me." Devilment tinged her voice.

"You are using Mark's description, April."

"It's correct, isn't it?" she teased, slowing into a curve. "Jesus! It's snowing like a mother out here!" Illya heard the sound of tires trying for purchase and frowned.

"Perhaps you should end this transmission and turn your full attention to driving," he suggested.

"Nope, got it under control," she answered. "No prob except this thing rides like a log wagon. Doesn't bother 'Pasha, though. He's out like a light." She smiled at her sleeping companion. "I guess spending the better part of a day with Angelique and Sherrill exhausted him, poor baby."

"Speaking of Angelique and Sherrill …"

"Ah, yes, the reason for this call," she said, tucking the communicator behind her ear and slapping both hands on the steering wheel. "Dropped them off, signed them in, and departed. No problems in route, no problems at the facility, and no problems, period." The wheel tugged in her grip. "Except for this goddamn weather."

Illya frowned at the microphone. "Drive carefully, April. I do not believe that there is road assistance available to you in that particular area."

"No Triple A out here, uh?"

"What is Triple A?"

"Big burly guys with bigger and burlier tow trucks," she explained, wrestling the wheel. "Listen, gotta go, the road's getting icy and I need to pay a little more attention to my excellent driving skills."

"Just remember, April, you are not driving your MG," Illya cautioned. "Slow down and take your time."

She chuckled at the tone in his voice. "Do you mother hen Emerson like this?" She could hear his glare in the silence. "Let 'Pasha out of the office for a few hours and you develop a Napoleonic complex. See you tomorrow, Luv. Dancer, out."

The conversation was hours old. He tugged on his jacket and headed for the door ready to assault Communications again, when the door to his office opened and Muriel from Research stepped in.

"Glad I caught you, Mr. Kuryakin," she said, dropping a sheaf of files on his desk. "This is everything we could find quickly on Trap. Monitoring doesn't report any activity on him personally, but they have located three top Thrush agents."

"Location?" Illya demanded, reaching for the red folder that rested atop the others.

"On the move early this morning out of Canada. Destination unknown." She smiled and walked out. Illya hurried to Communications. Wanda greeted him.

"Hi, Illya. Where's the cane?"

"In my office," he answered curtly. "Have you received any further transmission from Mr. Solo or Miss Dancer?"

Wanda glanced at the large wall clock and shook her head. "Not yet, but I'm sure they've arrived in Caribou. Just took longer than expected. The weather was something fierce."

"So I have heard," Illya commented, reaching for the microphone. "Open Channel D, priority."

"Solo."

"Napoleon, where are you? You missed the expected check-in."

"Royal Arms in Caribou. Just got out of the shower and then we're going to dinner." He pointed at April and shook his fingers. "Sorry, the weather delayed us … and, I thought my partner had reported in." Illya frowned.

"It is of no consequence. Current information suggests that three top Thrush agents are on the move in the Northeast. As Mr. Waverly suggests, we expect an attempt on the Battson facility."

"That's a waste of time," April commented. Napoleon made a slash across his throat.

"Perhaps not, April," Illya replied evenly. "No facility is completely secure. We have sent a priority dispatch and they are ordered to increase security with particular regard to Angelique and Sherrill." Illya leaned against the console, resting his left leg for a moment.

Napoleon grinned at the earnest tone in Illya's voice. "If I were anywhere except Caribou I might tack on a couple more days," he said, moving toward the door with April not far behind. "Sounds like you've taken to your new job as _acting_ CEA." He could feel Illya rolling his eyes.

"Listen carefully, Napoleon," Illya continued. "Does the name 'Verity Wexler' mean anything to you?"

An icy shiver ran up Napoleon's spine.

* * *

Angelique DuChein sat huddled on her bunk, leaning against the cold steel wall of her cell, and clutching a stainless steel coffee cup trying to warm her nearly frozen hands. A guard walked past and she shouted.

"I demand to see the commandant! I'm freezing to death in here! I demand to see the commandant!" The guard stopped, sliding open the grate.

"Miss DuChein," he said evenly, "the whole place is a meat locker. They're working on the heat now, but it's gonna be cold in here tonight." He glanced at his manifest. "You've already got three blankets. Just relax and get some sleep." She threw the cup at the door.

"'Get some sleep', Angelique," she complained, pacing the small cell. "'Just relax', Angelique. Bastards!" She ran to the door and pounded, the sound of her fists echoing down the long, cold, empty hallway. The statuesque blonde leaned against the door for a moment and then returned to her bunk and wrapped herself in the blankets.

"Trap, I hope you rot in hell!" she whispered as sleep overtook her.

* * *

Napoleon and April took their supper in the Royal Arms restaurant, Buckingham Hall. The place was decorated with swords, hatchets, shields, and even suits of armor. Deep crimson velvet drapes hung at the leaded windows helping to keep the chill of the winter night to a minimum. A fire blazed in the huge hearth and the two agents warmed themselves and lingered over coffee.

"You should have called Illya," Napoleon said, grinning at his partner. "When he's playing CEO-apparently he's very by the book."

"I _did_ call Communications," April protested. "I gave them an ETA." She smiled at Napoleon, her reddened cheeks showing the results of a little wind burn. "Not my fault that Mother Nature decided to screw with us." She shook her head. "He's more of a 'Mother Hen' than Mark and it's good to yank their chains every now and then."

Napoleon chuckled, understanding her feelings. Illya and Mark were sterling examples of the best in partners, but they also had a wide streak of 'mother hen' in them when their partners were away. He squeezed her hand and winked. "Before all hell breaks loose, care to accompany me to Raleigh's? I'll buy the first round."

The doorman flagged a taxi and they drove three blocks to the bar. It was an interesting decorating mix of neo-lumber jack and 1930s ski lodge.

The room, dominated by a huge fireplace filled with crackling logs and popping embers, included a small dance floor surrounded by tightly packed small tables. Patrons jammed the tables, drinking and talking. A substantial bar ran the length of the front wall, the back bar interspersed with gilt mirrors and windows that looked out on the snow covered street.

Napoleon's eyes slowly made the circuit of the room, inspecting and categorizing each patron, none looked familiar. "Looks like Burt was right," he said, watching the place fill quickly. "Raleigh's is a popular joint. Even on a Wednesday evening."

"Only joint in town," a gum snapping waitress said, her hand on her hip. "What can I getcha?"

Napoleon smiled at her, taking in her ample frame, form fitting tee-shirt, and painted on black jeans. April noted that her nipples stood out like beacons and then lightly jabbed Napoleon in the ribs. "The lady's asking for your order."

"Ah, yes, May Rose," he said, reading her name tag, "I'll have a Scotch on the rocks … the best Scotch you've got, please."

She grinned, snapped her gum, and tugged a nub of a pencil from her bee-hive hair do. "Twelve year old single malt do ya?"

"Excellent, May Rose," Napoleon said, a silly grin on his face. "That will do nicely."

"And you?" she asked, stabbing the pencil at April. "Wad ya' want?"

"I'll have the same." She leaned toward Napoleon. "There goes the tip," she whispered.

May Rose gave April a look and snapped her gum. "A little thing like you, drinkin' like the big boys." She shrugged and winked at Napoleon. "Well, ya' know what they say, Bub; the customer's always right. Back in a sec."

April laughed and nudged Napoleon. "These mountain girls are a force to be reckoned with, uh, 'Pasha?" She watched May Rose shimmy her way to the bar. "I'm thinking she could take you in a heart beat, even if you are CEA."

Napoleon swallowed and grinned. "That would be very interesting, April."

"Charlie would be very interested. There might even be enough of you left to identify the body."

"Before or after Charlie got hold of me?" he asked, watching the three piece band take the tiny stage.

"After, 'Pasha, after." May Rose delivered their drinks and a bowl of unshelled peanuts.

"Need anything else, Bub, just give me the high sign," she said, wriggling her way to another table.

"Maybe I'll start calling you 'Bub' and retire 'Pasha'." April sized up Napoleon. "Yup, you're really beginning to look like a 'Bub'." Napoleon gave her the 'I'm the CEA and don't you forget it' look.

"Damn! Some people are so sensitive about nicknames!" April crammed a handful of peanuts into her mouth. "You seem to be taking this Battson thing pretty lightly, 'Pasha. I'm surprised that we aren't on our way back there."

The trio began a set of Beatles songs. Napoleon smiled at April. "While I can imagine Trap trying something, I can't imagine they'd be successful." He sipped his Scotch and relaxed a little. "Battson may not look like it's got much fire power, but it does. There are more than 100 guards on duty 'round the clock."

"Still, Napoleon …," April began. He took her hand and brushed it with a kiss.

"Stop worrying, April. The Commandant at Battson has added personnel from the Quebec office. Everything's under control and we're out of here tomorrow morning." He smiled and she nodded. "Now, enjoy your drink and the music."

A woman came on stage, no 'girl singer' by any stretch of the imagination. Tall and dressed in a black lace mini-dress, she filled it with well placed curves and planes. Her long, slender legs, in black net stockings, ended in thigh high leather boots.

"Put your eyes back in your head, 'Pasha," April said laughter behind her words. "If you think Charlie wouldn't leave much after May Rose, I can guarantee that after this one there wouldn't be enough of you left to even prove you were ever on the planet." He chuckled and sipped his Scotch.

"Good evening," the singer whispered into the microphone. "I am Dominique and these are my boys." She perched on a barstool, resting one booted foot on a rung, her mini-skirt rising to new heights, and took a drag on a long cigarette. "I'd like to start with "You Was Right Baby" covered by Peggy Lee."

Dominique sang in a deep, soft voice reminiscent of Julie London. The French accent that colored her speaking voice disappeared in the lyrics and April found herself enjoying the performance. She switched to Judy Garland, singing "You Go to My Head." The final piece of the set was a soulful rendering of 'Michelle' by the Beatles. April excused herself and made her way through the now crowded tables to the women's room.

* * *

Emerson stacked the files for the next day on the corner of her desk and slipped on her shoes. Lifting the receiver, she dialed home, expecting him to answer.

"Cates-Kuryakin residence," Cav said, using her most official voice.

"Hi, Cav. Where's the Russian?

"Haven't seen him since this morning." Emerson frowned.

"Charlie's going to have his head! He's into next week with the four hour limit." She could hear the children in the background. "Kiss them good night and tell them we'll check on them when we get home. Thanks, Cav."

"Don't be too harsh, Em. 'Bye."

Emerson grabbed her communicator. "Open Channel D. Agent Kuryakin."

"Kuryakin," came the swift reply.

"What the hell are you doing here?" An uneasy silence followed.

"I am managing the transfer of Miss DuChein and Dr. Sherrill."

"I would think that Angelique has been tucked in for the night." She lit a cigarette and paused. "Have you forgotten what Charlie told you?" She waited, hearing Illya's irritation in the silence.

"This is a particularly complicated transfer, Em, one that I wished to supervise personally."

"Spoken like a true control freak. I'm coming down."

"I am not in my office."

"I know. You're in the lab and you owe me dinner."

* * *

Napoleon watched as April disappeared through the crowd and applauded Dominique at the same time. He relaxed and lit a cigarette, adding to the already smoky room. A fresh drink dangled before his eyes.

"Puis-je vous rejoindre, monsieur?" (May I join you, mister?) Dominique asked, grabbing nearby chair and straddling the seat. Her skirt disappeared. She sipped a glass of red wine.

"Absolument, Dominique," (Absolutely, Dominique) Napoleon answered, smiling at the raven haired chanteuse. "I enjoyed your performance."

"Merci … thank you. I enjoy this very much … singing, performing for people." She raked Napoleon with her eyes. "It is not often, monsieur … "

"Solo. Napoleon Solo," he interjected.

""Merveilleux!" she laughed. "Napoleon dans Caribou!" (Marvelous! Napoleon in Caribou!) She touched his hand. "As I was saying, Napoleon, it is not often that a man of such refinement appears in our humble establishment."

He withdrew his hand and returned to his drink. "I'm here on business … logging, paper production, that sort of thing."

"Ah oui, we have trees … many, many trees!" She leaned toward him and smiled. "The woman, she is a business associate, oui?"

"Oui … yes … my secretary," he answered, noting the slightest tremble in his hands.

Napoleon blinked and tried to focus. "What did you put in my drink?"

"Drink? Nothing, mon ami. Rien du tout." (… my friend. Nothing at all.) Dominique signaled two large men at the bar as Napoleon's head slipped to the table.

* * *

Illya kissed each of the girls and then checked on Nicky, tucking his favorite blanket under his arm. He made his way down stairs, changed Alexi's nappy, and tucked the baby into his crib. He paced the study, checking his watch and the clock every few seconds. Wandering toward the kitchen, Emerson glanced up from the living room couch and grinned.

"Relax, Nikala," she suggested. "Napoleon and April are completely capable of taking care of themselves." He frowned at her. "Anyway, the hard part is finished. Angelique and Sherrill are officially off our books." She joined him in the kitchen.

"Something's up, Kuryakin," she said, taking his arm and holding him in place. "You don't worry like this when things are on the downhill side."

He shook his head and filled the kettle. "Dr. Eligeus Trap has dispatched three of his best agents. We believe that they are planning to extricate Miss DuChein and perhaps, Dr. Sherrill." Emerson shrugged and reached for mugs.

"That's not surprising, is it? I mean, Angelique is a high value agent and I'm sure Trap wants her back." The kettle sounded and he poured the steaming water into the tea pot, smiling at the mugs Emerson had chosen.

Matching thick and unsophisticated mugs from a St. Louis restaurant Emerson loved to frequent called 'White Castle'. He poured the hot, strong tea and stirred in a tablespoon of raspberry jam. Leaning against the kitchen counter he sipped the tea and watched the snow fall.

"Nikala, am I right?" Emerson interrupted his brooding.

"Yes, but there is more. A woman is believed to be with Trap, not unusual in itself, but this particular woman is." Emerson waited, but not for long. "Miss Verity Wexler."

"Der'mo!" (Shit!) Emerson whispered.

* * *

April hummed the melody of 'Michelle' as she washed her hands, thinking that this assignment had gone well in spite of the nasty turn in the weather. She glanced up as a woman used the next sink.

"Miss Theobald!" she said, surprise in her voice. "I hadn't expected to meet you here."

Bertha washed her large hands and reached beyond April for the cloth towel machine, pulling hard on the device.

"I decided to come into town … took off a couple of days," Bertha said, stepping out of April's way. "Your friend, Mr. Solo, here, too?"

April dried her hands and checked her lipstick. "Having a drink and waiting for me." Too late, she felt Bertha's massive hand on the back of neck propelling her head into the mirror. April went limp and Bertha hoisted her up like a rag doll, tucking the agent under her arm and walking out the door. Another patron looked shocked.

"Is she okay?"

"Just a little too much of the good stuff," Bertha answered, moving steadily toward the backdoor. "Bumped her head in the bathroom. I'll get her a little fresh air and she'll be good as new."

Bertha laughed all the way to the panel truck, dragging April beside her.

* * *

Angelique rolled off the bunk and hit the floor with a thud. "Son of a bitch!" she thought, getting to her feet. A second later, she was dropped to her knees as the building quaked beneath her.

Concrete dust filtered from the ceiling and she smelled smoke from an electrical fire. Using the dim emergency lighting, she drawled to the cell door and pounded with all her might.

"Hey! Get me out of here! I could die in here!" The groans of the disintegrating building were the only reply. She pounded again. "Get me out of here! Now"

"Step away from the door, Miss DuChein," a low, calm voice ordered.

"Who are you?"

"Michael Handy," the voice replied. "Step back from the door, Miss DuChein. I've placed a charge to disarm the lock." Angelique moved quickly the corner and covered herself with the blankets. The door creaked open and she peeked out.

"Please put this on, Miss DuChein," Handy said, holding a full-length mink coat. "It is very cold outside and Trap … Dr. Trap … wants you to be comfortable." Angelique slipped into the opulent fur around her and flipped up the collar.

"Where is Sherrill?" she asked, pushing her hands into the deep slash pockets and coming out with fur lined gloves and a matching mink hat. Handy smiled and shrugged.

"He won't be joining us."

Angelique felt a coldness in her belly no amount of mink could dispel.

* * *

Illya crawled into bed and lay with his head pillowed on Emerson's breast, waiting for his communicator to sound. She sighed and ran her fingers through his hair.

"Worrying about 'Pasha and April isn't doing any good and they'd both laugh if they could see you now." He allowed a low chuckle.

"Napoleon would think me unappreciative of my current circumstance," he murmured, kissing her breast and allowing his hand to wander.

"_**I**_ think you unappreciative of your current circumstance," Emerson giggled as his fingers invaded her mound of dark, curly hair. "That's better. It's good to be appreciated."

"Then I shall continue." Illya took his time, loving every inch of her body, reminding himself of the joys he found there. Finally, he rested in her arms, relishing the scent of her body; a magnificent mix of sweat, sex, and perfume. She grinned, kissing his temple.

"I smell like a French whorehouse on the morning after," she suggested. He laughed.

"You smell like a woman well loved." She held him tight, listening as his breathing evened out and then to the soft snore that told her he was asleep. Emerson followed soon after.

Somewhere in her dream, she heard the sound of a communicator and felt the bed move. "Nikala?" she murmured softly.

Illya grabbed the offending device and slipped into the setting room. "Kuryakin." Emerson rolled over and flipped on the bedside lamp.

"Mr. Kuryakin," Wanda's voice lost some of its cool professional edge, "Mr. Waverly wishes to see you immediately. We have received a communiqué regarding Napoleon and April."

Wanda heard a click and realized that the connection was dead.

* * *

_Cold,_ she thought, her face pressed against a hard and unyielding mattress. _I hate the cold._ She kept her eyes closed and took in her surroundings.

_I'm breathing … that's a decent start. It's cold._

_I taste blood. So much for the decent start._

April cracked open her eyelids and surveyed the space. It appeared to be a standard issue cell in a standard issue dungeon. Walls of rough stone rose 20 feet, damp with condensation and smeared with mold. From the looks of the wall some of the stains weren't mold, they were blood.

She opened her eyes, rolled into a sitting position, and immediately vomited. Her finger tips brushed her forehead, the site of her pounding headache, and they came back bloody. Bits of glass stuck to her fingers and a shard tinkled to the floor.

"Perfect. A concussion," she muttered. "Dancer, you are an idiot. Where was that 'woman's intuition' you're so proud of, uh?" She wiped her mouth, stood shakily, putting one foot in front of the other, and made the circuit of the cell. Two buckets stood in a corner, one with what might be drinkable water, the other to use as a toilet. She dipped her hands into the water and rubbed her face.

A bare light bulb, much too high to be of any use, dangled from the ceiling casting weak shadows around the cell. The rough bunk hung suspended by chains from the wall. A tiny window near the ceiling completed the look. The wall opposite her bunk held chains and cuffs attached huge eyebolts. "This just keeps getting better and better." The wood plank door creaked open.

"Unfortunately, you are incorrect, Miss Dancer, at least from my vantage point." April glared at her visitor. The tall, buxom red head next to him laughed.

"Eligeus Trap," she whispered, lounging against the bunk for balance.

The old man stepped into the cell. "_Dr._ Eligeus Trap of Thrush Central." He extended a thin, bony hand tipped with thick, yellowed nails. April ignored the offered hand and fought back the urge to vomit. He smiled, his teeth matching the color of his nails. He nodded to the woman. "And this is Verity Wexler." April hoped her face was as impassive as possible.

"Ah, Miss Wexler, of the psychopathic Wexler Sisters." She glared at the woman. "The chanteuse, minus the wig and costuming," April said, giving Verity a less than charitable look. "Where's Napoleon?"

Trap grinned, his gaunt face splitting at the effort. "Mr. Solo has been dealt with, shall we say. At any rate, he is of no concern to you." His jaundiced, watery eyes raked her body. "I fear I must apologize, Miss Dancer. We were expecting another agent to accompany Mr. Solo."

"So, I'm second choice, uh?" she asked, dropping to the cot. "Who were you expecting?"

He clasped his hands together and grinned. "We were expecting Agent Cates. Apparently, that bit of information was incorrect." April brushed her hand through her long, tangled auburn hair, watching bits of mirror cascade to the floor.

"You must be very disappointed," she said, offering a sympathetic tone. "Trap laughed and traced the curve of April's cheek.

He glanced at Verity and smiled. "Under the circumstances, Miss Dance, you will serve as insurance."

April pulled away from him. "Insurance?"

"Yes, my dear, insurance. I already have one half of my goal accomplished," he said, pacing the cell. "Miss Wexler desires to 'interview' Mr. Solo." Verity's eyes lit up at the thought. "And, the other half of my goal will come to me in short order."

"Other half?" April asked, hoping that Trap hadn't noticed the tremor in her body.

"Illya Kuryakin."

* * *

More to come ... soon


End file.
